Fate Worse Than Death
by Theodosia Roy
Summary: A phiclet of Christine's journey to the Phantom's lair. Leroux based.


**Fate Worse Than Death**

Gently I cradled her head in the crook of my left arm, my other hand hesitantly stretched out––as if to _touch_ her…

My shaking fingers trailed down her cheek, traced her brow, brushed her hair…

She was white as snow in the shadows, frail , fragile...

Her fair lashes appeared dark, her cheeks hollow, her lips thin––almost as if she lay dead in my arms, instead of faint…

Still cradling her head, I uncapped the bottle of cordial I had set close at my knee, tenderly pressed my thumb against her lower lip and parted her mouth so that I could dribble the tonic into it. Gingerly, I tilted her head back slightly so that the drops would slide down her throat while with my other hand I worked the cap back onto the bottle.

It reminded me of a little potion I had taken long ago, to feign death…

She did not stir, but lay blank and lifeless in my arms for minutes––hours?––longer. She was both cool and warm, her expression both slack and serene––nonetheless, I fretted, stroking her unbound tresses to ease myself.

I was content to sit so, by the well, César standing quietly nearby, head low, watching me. We gazed at each other for some time, and his gentle old eyes made me anxious and conscious of the time––whatever it may be in this hell.

Situating her tenderly, tentatively on the cool stones of the cavern floor, I drew my kerchief and knelt by the well, soaking the kerchief in the cold, bubbling well-water. I wrung the kerchief of excess water, shivering a little as the droplets hit the water––making an eerie interruption in the still, choking emptiness and silence.

Again at her side, I bathed her with the cold kerchief until expressions began to work themselves in her angelic face. I then abandoned the cloth to its lonely fate on the stones and slowly began to massage her temples.

She gasped and her eyes fluttered open––a deep, deep blue in the darkness––near black, like the night…yet as bright as clear, cold winter stars…

There was no recognition on her face––of course not, why had I hoped?

A frown, brow creased in frustration, in fear…

Her hands reaching up…not to encircle the fingers about my wrists in familiarity, but to lift them away. Though she stared, she recoiled…

I withdrew my hands from her face, but she continued to stare; her pallid cheeks were again flushing with the faintest hues of color, her limp frame was again rigid and alert.

"Who are you?"

I turned away, my heart heavy, pressing against my chest—my name in my throat, yet invisible hands choking it down, down…my tongue thick, clumsy, dry…

"Where is the voice?"

My eyes flickered to her––she was sitting up now, propping her weight up on her palms, her locks tumbling over her smooth, pale shoulders and curved breasts––offering a little more modesty than her lace nightgown. Her voice was a tight whisper, as if she was too afraid to speak louder. It was not dreamy, wistful––but in its quiet way, demanding.

She wanted something familiar to cling to, like a child will when woken from a horrible nightmare, or a woman will during childbirth, or a man who knows death awaits him…

I sighed and made a subtle gesture, a gesture which César had been trained to respond to. The horse moved forward, his pointed ears pinioned forward, a whucker escaping his lips––he knew her voice.

When he nudged his velvety nose against her willowy arm, she startled at first, only to realize in the next moment it was a horse…only a horse…a horse befitting the shining hero, rather than the black night…

While she stared into the expectant horse's face, I rose and brought her to her feet, which, as I held her weight in my hands, did not want to support her. Mutely, I gathered her legs up into my arms as well, and carried her 'round to César's left side and raised her up into the saddle.

She swayed, as if waking from a deep sleep, then fell forward, her arms about César's neck, her face turned into his mane. I heard her murmur the stallion's name as I mounted behind her, and watched as she held the horse in that endearing embrace…and I watched with painful longing, wedged like a thorn between the two halves of my heart. What would I have given to have been embraced so…

Reaching before me, I righted her with one hand and swept my arm about her waist, pressing her close to my body––the trail through the catacombs was chill, even for me. In my other hand, I held the reins…

Downward we went, level by level, along a circular stair…César requiring little guidance––by now he knew the road well, and the reward at its end…

In my arms, she sat erect, watching this way and that, marveling at what must have appeared demons and other horrors on our path down to the realm of Hades…I half expected and feared that Cerberus would be there, waiting for me, to finish me after I'd delivered Penelope into his master's hands…

After a time, she began to shake and quiver––at first I thought with cold, then, I realized…with fear. The cordial had, these hours past, likely worn off…and again she was alone with me, her captor, a demon…something which made her skin crawl…

I wanted to think that it was perhaps the dark, dank, shadowy night that made me seem so wretched––gave the illusion of evil. I loved her, but somehow the night twisted my love for her into a reason for her to fear me––a reason to make her believe I was kidnapping her, condemning her…

I meant her no ill, only the best…

I loved her…how does that make me evil? I would do anything for her…be anything for her…if it lay in my power…I would…

César slowed––the lake stretched before us, the boat lolling innocently on the faintly rippling water. I laid aside the reins, my arms momentarily both about her, when she began to struggle, push them away, slip under them––as if to run, to escape…from _me_.

Biting my lip, composing my resolve as best as I could, I gathered her into my arms and slid down with her in them, ushering her gently but sternly to the boat. César stood, waiting, white and proud and magnificent…as if he were some sort of hero, and I were the villain. The boat rocked beneath our weights, and César moved forward, but I motioned him away…I would untack and care for him later…

Confused, but obedient, César clopped away and into shadow…

She let out a low, strained wail that was half a whimper…like a child, a sweet, poor…frightened child…

I rowed.

For a half-hour I rowed, and she sat at the prow, her lovely face buried in her porcelain arms, her locks, grey and silver in the strange light of the lake, in waves down her back…she did not sob…no, she was much too terrified for that…

I watched her as I rowed, my heart sore, swelling in my throat…but a threat lingered in the back of my mind…if it had not been for her, I knew the Siren would have claimed me…

Eventually the light gave way to blackness again, a sure sign that I was near my destination…

And soon enough, the boat's hull bumped against the shore. Nimbly, I leapt out and sought means with which to tie it. Nearby, in the darkness, another little boat rose and fell in the darkness, silent, not creaking in the slightest, its outline barely visible in the impenetrable darkness…

I took her into my arms, and she cried out, writhing in my grasp so much that I near dropped her. It was as if my touch burned, poisoned…I quickened my steps and my chest began to heave, and I began to taste blood I was biting my lip so hard…

I passed through the door and dropped her, without ceremony, without gentility, into _his_ little paradise, closed the door, and stumbled back into the night, leaving her to her fate. I tripped and my knees fell hard in the water, my upper body falling against one of the boats, which glided away from my weight on the water, causing me to plunge into the cold shallows…

I threw myself backwards against the shore and began to sob uncontrollably, flinging the mask from my face and clawing it.

She was right to loathe me…for I am the most vile and wretched of all creatures…

_I am her father!_

Her poor, unhappy father who has traded her, and her innocence…to a madman and a genius…so that she might sing like the angels, so that she might have fame, fortune, all the things I could not give her!

My little angel! My little Lotte…

_What have I done!_

note—

"…_the wandering, cloaked shade which, while condemning itself to live in the cellars of the Opera,…_"


End file.
